


nightmares

by sidnee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Feels, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Draco Malfoy-centric, Flashbacks, Post-Battle of Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29810358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnee/pseuds/sidnee
Summary: Draco hated himself now. He couldn't even stand to look in a mirror without wanting to smash it under his own fist. He hated seeing himself staring back at him when he looked, hated seeing how pathetic he looked now.
Kudos: 2





	nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a Drarry one shot but then my mind said "no, make it a draco centric angst" and who was I to deny it that
> 
> this has a form of self harm (aggressive scratching) so if that triggers you, please don't read this ! I don't want to upset any of you <3

Draco could almost bang his head into the wall at this point, irritated beyond belief at the fact that no matter how hard he tried to compliment Potter, genuinely, whether it be to his hair-- which would look more tamed then usual on certain days; or the way he looked rather nice at the time, when all it would do was come out as a sarcastic remark, or an almost sneer.

In response to that, Potter would come back with either something equally as insulting, or nothing at all other than just a simple glance at him, which almost seemed empathetic to Draco, and that only frustrated and confused Draco further.

Draco was confused as to why it happened at first, though he figured it was due to all of the years of the constant, almost never ending game of tit for tat with them, a game of who would get the last word, of who could come up with the better insult, who could do it quicker, or more efficiently.

Of course, Draco always won those arguments. It was a skill that he had picked up throughout his years with the other man, he knew nearly all the right things to say to get Potter riled up and red in the face, nearly unable to talk without it coming out as a shout. (Or an almost fist to the face, though that only happened once before Granger turned up and pulled Harry away, mumbling something to him about how hitting him would only make his situation worse.) That day was the best reaction Draco had ever gotten out of Potter, and at the time, he thought it was an achievement of some sorts, something he could mock him with or laugh at him about.

That was back in fifth year, now they're in their eighth year, and looking back at it now, Draco realises how utterly immature he was back then, and how much of a prick he was as well.

God, he was insufferable, wasn't he?

Though now when Draco does those same things, almost as a habit, Draco thinks, it seemed wrong, and felt wrong too. Though to Harry it seemed like almost a coping mechanism. A way for him to keep grasp on one of the only things that seemed to stay the same for him, after his whole entire world had been flipped upside down, and torn inside out in one of the most horrible ways possible.

However now...now they were all far better than that, him and Potter had somewhat grown past that stage of...whatever you could call it, though Draco supposes there isn't really a title for it. He couldn't say relationship, they're not friends, and Draco swears that Potter probably still has grudges against him, a few little embers of hate that still flicker, maybe a bit dimly, but there. Which he understands, he can't blame him. If he was Potter he sure would, even if the dark haired male did testify for him in front of the whole Ministry court.

It was weird to Draco, even after the hearing, Harry had just simply left without saying much of a word to Draco, which was something Draco found odd. Someone who was your sworn school enemy doesn't usually testify your innocence in front of a court to keep you from getting sent to Azkaban, and they most certainly don't just walk off without a word said to you after it, right?

It is what it is, Draco supposes. There was nothing he could change about it.

However when Draco came back for his eighth year he felt...different. he wanted to leave everything behind him, well, as best he could rather; the dirty looks or glares he had shot at him when he walked through the doors of the castle on the first day of school, or the murmurs and whispers people had with their friends as he walked by them with his gray, dull, almost broken eyes downcast didn't really help him with the whole 'trying-to-forget-what-happened-and-finish-school' thing but, nevertheless, he was scraping by. Just barely, he supposes, but he was doing it the best he could.

Though, he wasn't really sure how much longer he could take it. The waking up in the middle of the night with his eyes watering, breath trembling, and his body shaking as he had flashes of what had happened merely around a year or two ago, a hand immediately coming to aggressively scratch at his left forearm. The shame he had building up inside of his chest just getting heavier and heavier as he scratched and scratched and scratched, desperately wanting to get it off. He hated it, hated everything it stood for.

It stood for how he had failed as a good child for his parents, how he failed as a good servant, even if he hadn't wanted to do it in the first place. It stood for his father, how he was now locked up, awaiting the dementor's kiss. How all of his family's money had been taken away, leaving their manor in shambles and his mother broken.The only thing left being their now tattered, ruined family name.

Leaving himself, and his family shattered into pieces that they would never be able to pull back together.

And then he would just sit there, almost as in a trance as he scratched his arm raw, as if he was trying to rip it off his skin with his nails; until someone in the house- shared dormitories would shift in their creaky bed or let out a rather loud snore, only then would it break. That's when he would look down at his now bright red arm that was covered in visible nail lines, some drawing small amounts of blood, feeling small, warm tears fall down his face.

Then he would quietly and softly get himself out of bed and the rooms, wandering around the castle corridors until his feet would carry him to the west tower. He would walk out into the balcony, and take in a deep breath of air.

It was almost a never ending cycle, and Draco despised it. Never once in his whole life had he ever felt as pathetic and worthless as he had now, never in his eighteen years of living.

The air felt heavier than it ever had, the signs of the war that had been fought just mere months ago, nearing a year, still very visible in some parts of the grounds. Hagrid's hut still hadn't been repaired and it just laid there on the ground, parts of it still standing, sticking out from the black and gray ashes, looking as if they could collapse any given moment.

Even wandering did him no good, because suddenly the stinging cuts in his forearm were more apparent then they had been earlier, along with the warm streaks falling down his face. He grasped the silver railing tightly, enough for his knuckles to turn white as he let out a quiet sob, his shoulders shaking, his body following the movement aggressively. He hated being like this; being weak.

He was a Malfoy, he shouldn't cry, he should be strong, should keep his head held high, and leave his emotions numb; at least that's what his father had always told him.

Though suddenly he was finding it harder to follow those directions day by day. He was tired, nearly exhausted, emotionally, mentally, and physically. He's been more emotional in these past five to six months than he had his entire life. His eyes had dark bags under them from his constant state of unrest, his body tired and worn down from the constant turmoil of emotions.

He couldn't sleep. Merlin knows he couldn't. He knew for a fact that as soon as his eyes shut and he saw black, as soon as he let sleep take it's terrifying, cold, unwelcomed grasp around his consciousness, that he would be thrown straight back into the horrors of his sixth and seventh year.

The memories Draco had of being held in his dungeon, nearly bit by Grayback, cursed and hexed and cut repeatedly by Voldemort and Bellatrix, how his parents just watched, doing nothing as Bellatrix laughed her shrill, psychotic laugh and Voldemort just chuckled darkly, finding some sort of sick, twisted satisfaction in seeing a mere boy tortured.

The memories of living in constant fear that if he just slept for more than thirty minutes each that the next time he opened his eyes he would be back there, the stone walls enclosing him, making it almost claustrophobic as the weak, frail bones of his knees dig into the hard, wet concrete floor, the feeling of the cold, almost sharp feeling metal around his wrists tightening each time he tried to break free from its clasps. The sound of his dry sobs echoing pathetically around the empty room of the dungeons as he let himself cry almost pitifully, the sound of them bouncing off the walls and straight back to him, almost as if saying look at you, as if he didn't know how weak he sounded, the sound of them almost echoing around in his mind, torturing his consciousness further. Then, he would hear the far too familiar sound of the loud metal hinges on the cellar door creak open, the sound of fabric swishing through the air as he walked down the stairs to make Draco suffer more than he already had.

The memories that had tortured him; always putting up extra protective charms around his room and door to take extra precautions, even if he knew Voldemort could have broken them with a singular swish of his wand.

It was those nights where he would just sit on his bed, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it across his room as he just stared at his chest in shame, the white patches of raised skin that decorated his even paler skin from the countless cuts and hexes; of the curses he had thrown at him serving as a constant, sick reminder of who he was, what he has done to others, some bigger than others.

The largest one was the scar that ran directly down his chest, the sides having small slits at the sides from the curse that Harry Potter had thrown at him that one fateful night in the sixth-years bathroom, the day that Potter had seen him at one of his absolute lowest moments. Potter saw him vulnerable, and Draco hated it.

Draco hated himself now. He couldn't even stand to look in a mirror without wanting to smash it under his own fist. He hated seeing himself staring back at him when he looked, hated seeing how pathetic he looked now. He knew he couldn't possibly ever be the same as the boy he was three years ago. The confident, cocky, ambitious bloke that everyone once either hated or loved **.**

Now, he was a different person entirely. Sure, he looked the same, almost; but now he was just a skeleton. A ghost of his past, a shadow of who he once was. Someone who could never be the same again.

And he hated every single moment of it. 

_**FIN** _


End file.
